


beneath this bowl of stars

by sabrinachill



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 18:23:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17533874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabrinachill/pseuds/sabrinachill
Summary: What if the psychic bond between them worked a little differently?***Liz punches her pillow and flops onto her back, sighing as she stares up into the inky darkness of her bedroom. It’s late — or, rather, very early — and sleep is proving as elusive as answers have been for the last couple of days.A cool night breeze drifts through her open window, making the edges of her thin curtains dance in the silver wash of moonlight. Outside, she can hear sounds of the desert at night - small creatures rustling in the scrub bushes, skittering on nearly silent feet across the baked sand. They used to bother her, these unknown sounds of things beyond what she can see.They don’t now. She’s discovered that there are much larger mysteries to solve.





	beneath this bowl of stars

**Author's Note:**

> Set somewhere in episode 1.1 before Max confesses the truth of what he is, and plays around a little with the mechanics of their psychic bond. 
> 
> Title from “Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby” by Counting Crows

Liz punches her pillow and flops onto her back, sighing as she stares up into the inky darkness of her bedroom. It’s late — or, rather, very early — and sleep is proving as elusive as answers have been for the last couple of days.

A cool night breeze drifts through her open window, making the edges of her thin curtains dance in the silver wash of moonlight. Outside, she can hear sounds of the desert at night - small creatures rustling in the scrub bushes, skittering on nearly silent feet across the baked sand. They used to bother her, these unknown sounds of things beyond what she can see. 

They don’t now. She’s discovered that there are much larger mysteries to solve. 

Mysteries like Max. And not just what he is, or how he saved her, but _who_ he is. 

And how he makes her feel. 

How, on some level, he’s _always_ made her feel. 

She rubs at the multicolored handprint on her chest — it’s not sore, exactly, but it feels _strange_ — and thinks of him. Of coming to on the floor of the diner with him hovering over her in his blood-splattered deputy’s uniform, breathing hard, some mix of terror and horror painting every one of his features.

In that first second, she’d actually been more concerned about _him_ than whatever miraculous thing was happening to her. He’d looked so lost and utterly grief-stricken, like someone had torn his still-beating heart from his chest.

That sight hurt almost as much as the gunshot had.

She wishes she could see him again now. For answers, sure, but for more than that, too. Liz wants to wrap her hands around those broad shoulders, look into his bright and kind and chronically sad eyes and know, somehow, that everything was going to be okay.

And then, as if she were a fairy godmother granting her own feverish wish, Max is just suddenly _there._ He’s lying beside her in her narrow bed, his hair messy from sleep, shock and worry etching themselves into their familiar places on his handsome face.

“Oh, god, I really do need to be committed,” she whispers, reaching her shaking fingers up to touch him. 

But as soon as her hand leaves the mark, he disappears.

She blinks, sitting upright and looking around. But Max is gone; she’s alone again in the darkness. 

“What the hell,” she mutters, raking her fingers against her scalp, getting them tangled in her long hair. 

_Just breathe, Liz,_ she tells herself, counting to five as she takes a deep inhale. _Don’t jump to conclusions._

Because, while she’s pretty sure she just hallucinated, she’s also a scientist. She knows that experiments have to be repeated in order to test their results.

So when she feels a little more stable, she lies back down, places her still-trembling hand on the mark, and thinks of Max again. Of the thick, dark hair that’s always falling across his forehead, of the kind eyes under that heavy brow, of the little expressions he’s always making with just the corners of his lips, like he’s constantly struggling to hold back something his mouth is desperate to say.

And then he’s back, in a soft white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, braced on his forearms and lying above her.

“Liz,” he murmurs, his gaze drifting across her bare shoulders and collarbones, to the deep scoop of the tank top she wears to sleep. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“You’re not,” she answers. “I’m hallucinating.”

“No, you’re not. And this isn’t right—“

“Please, Max,” she interrupts, gripping his t-shirt with her free hand, the one not resting on the mark. “I’m scared and confused and alone, and I’m so tired of being all of those things. So if my brain is so broken that it’s going to conjure hallucinations, then I’m willing to go with it, just this once.”

Liz releases his shirt and raises her hand to trace across his eyebrow and down the side of his face, sliding it across the stubble of his jaw, threading her fingers through the thick softness of his hair. He feels warm and hard and so incredibly _real—_

“Because I _am_ real, Liz,” he says, answering questions she never spoke aloud. “You’re not crazy. I’m… something happened, at the diner. And it created a bond between us. My body is still back home, in my bed, but my mind — I’m here with you. Everything you’re feeling, all the emotion and sensations, they’re as real as if I was physically here.” 

He looks away, that familiar little furrow between his brows, and Liz can’t help but reach up and smooth it out with her thumb. 

“Okay, well that’s good,” she says, even as he’s shaking his head to dispute her. “No, it _is,”_ she insists. _“_ It means I’m still sane. Besides, I wanted to see you, and now I can.” She lets her hand fall away from him and smiles a little. “You don’t have to worry so much, Max. Whatever you are, whatever happened, whatever brought you here tonight — it’s good.”

Max shifts a little, brushing an errant lock of her dark hair off her forehead, letting his fingers trail softly down her cheek. “I know. And I don’t regret it, any of it. I just…” He sighs, letting his forehead drop to rest on hers for a moment. "It complicates things.”

“Things are always complicated,” she whispers, so close she can feel the warmth of his breath on her skin. “That’s how you know they’re worth having.”

He pulls back just a couple of inches and watches her, his serious, gentle gaze drifting across her face, then down to the handprint glowing around the thin strap of her tank top.  “I should go. What you feel… it’s just an echo. A side effect of the mark. It’s not real.”

She feels as if a thousand butterflies are taking flight in her chest but Liz raises her chin, brave and defiant. “Then why did I spend the last ten years feeling the same way I do right now?” 

It’s not something she could ever admit in the daylight, when he’s wearing that gun belt and Stetson, when she’s got her lipstick and chunky rings and sarcasm to hide behind. Not when they’re Liz The Scientist and Max The Cop, officially nothing more than friends and former lab partners. 

But labels and armor don’t exist here, in the still silence of the dead of the night, in her warm pile of soft blankets and starlight. Here she can be honest with him.

She can be honest with _herself._

“What?” Max asks, his voice rough but tinged with the barest sliver of hope. Of wonder.

Liz smiles a little, willing him to hear the truth in her words. “I never stopped thinking about you, Max. I never stopped wanting you, wanting _this._ ”

“But you never… you never said anything. You never came home.”

She blinks and looks away for a moment, staring across the room at the barely visible outline of her dresser, a squatty ghost skulking by the door. “It was too painful, after Rosa. I just had to leave Roswell in the rearview mirror.” She brings her gaze back to his. “But the part I could never quite leave behind was _you._ ”

Max studies her eyes in the weak silver moonlight, searching for the truth shining in their dark depths. He’s so quiet; there’s just the soft sound of his ragged breath, so close that she can feel the rise and fall of his chest against hers. 

“Please, Max,” she murmurs, running the fingertips of her free hand over the stubble on his strong jaw, “just stay with me. I don’t know what’s going on or how you’re here, but I know that i want this. I’ve wanted it for a long time, and I think you have, too. So, please. _Stay with me_.”

He just keeps searching her face, his expression torn and yearning, his eyes flicking back and forth between hers. 

And she can’t wait any longer. 

Liz surges up and captures his lips, the kiss harder and more intense than either of them expected. But the charge between them has been building for nearly two decades — now that it’s finally sparked, it’s going to _explode_.

And Liz is ready to let it burn. 

Because Max is kindness and warmth and light; he’s faithful and loyal and honorable. Because she’s never felt safer than with his solid weight pressing her into the bed — and because she never knew it was possible to crave a person’s touch this much.

She’s got her hand on his jaw, pulling him closer to her, coaxing his mouth open. Max tastes like mint and rain on her tongue; his scent of soap and skin and leather and gunpowder is wrapped around her. Beneath her touch, his muscles tremble like there’s a barely contained wildfire raging under his skin. 

But he’s still resistant, holding himself back a little, unwilling to give in when Liz doesn’t know the truth. Doesn’t know what he is, or how he’s here with her. 

“Wait,” he gasps, breaking away. “Were you being honest with me? You really had feelings for me before that night at the diner?”

“Yes,” she whispers, her thumb pressed into the cleft in his chin, staring into his dark eyes from inches away. “ _Yes._ ”

He smiles a little against his will, awe and wonder edging their way onto his face. “And you want this, even if you don’t know how it’s happening?”

“I want _you._ Any way I can have you.”

Max is still staring at her like he’s caught in a dream, like what’s happening is far too good to actually be real. And Liz can’t take it for a second longer, that handsome face that she’s adored for so long, filled with longing for _her._ She traces her fingers over his lips and Max’s eyes fall closed, pressing a tender kiss to her fingertips.

And then to her wrist. And shoulder. And neck, the skin so sensitive that Liz’s breath catches in her chest, pressing up against his. And her cheek, and the corner of her full lips. He opens his eyes then, watching her, and she wraps her hand around the back of his neck and pulls him down to meet her. 

The kiss is deep and reverent and also hungry, like they’ve both been wandering the desert outside the window for years and have finally found relief from the searing sun. And Max may be a good guy but he doesn’t kiss like one, sucking her bottom lip into his mouth and dragging his teeth across it in a way that has her moaning and arching off the bed. 

He kisses along the column of her neck, her pulse fast and hard against his lips, her breath ragged and dragged out of her. He’s careful to keep her hand in place on the mark as he peels off her tank top, stretching it and sliding it over her shoulder. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against her sternum, as if he could press the words through skin and bone and directly into her heart. 

He keeps one arm supporting his weight and lets the other hand roam, his large palm warm against the thin skin covering her ribs, his thumb teasing at the sensitive underside of her breast. She threads her fingers through his thick hair and tries to remember to breathe when he drags his mouth across her chest, kissing one nipple lightly before sucking it into his mouth.

She moans and her fingers tighten as his tongue flicks across the sensitive skin. He takes his time, his mouth slow and thorough, then giving equal attention to her other breast. He grazes his teeth across her skin in a way that has her gasping before his head travels further south, softly kissing across her abdomen to the waist of the sleep shorts stretched low on her hips. He looks up at her from beneath his lashes, holding her eyes as he bites the elastic band and gently tugs them down.

Liz eagerly raises her hips to help him, and Max hooks his fingers beneath the waist and tugs them over the curve of her ass. She isn’t wearing any underwear and his eyes darken a little at the sight of her as he pulls the shorts down the length of her tanned legs. He moves slowly, letting her feel everything: the soft fabric sliding over every inch of her skin, the heated brush of his breath against her, the press of his lips as they trail down the inside of her thighs, across the bend of her knees, over the bones of her ankles. His long fingers are strong and skillful and warm, caressing every inch of her that’s laid bare before him.

“Liz,” he says, reciting her name like a prayer, awe and worship breaking his voice. 

Max is painted in shades of silver and black and gray by the thin moonlight streaming through the gap in her bedroom curtains, his dark eyes glinting when he looks up her body to meet her gaze. Liz brushes his hair off his forehead, almost unable to believe that this is really happening, that it’s not all some elaborate dream. 

_Maybe it is_ , she thinks. _Maybe I’m still bleeding out on the diner floor, and this is all some incredibly detailed fantasy my dying brain conjured up to help ease the pain_. 

Right now, she’d be okay with that. 

Because Max has taken control, hooking her knees over his shoulders and holding her ass in his steady hands, raising and tilting her hips until the angle of her body against his lips is just right. She’s so wet and hot, his breath blowing across her exposed skin making her shiver; he slides his tongue between her folds and she slams her eyes shut, the sheets twisting in her fist. 

He’s concentrated and confident, devoted and assured, pressing his tongue flat and firm against her clit. He gives it a few long, slow strokes before wrapping his lips around her and sucking in a way that makes Liz rock her hips against his face. He tightens his grip on her and chuckles a little; she can feel the sound vibrate through her like champagne bubbles fizzing along her nerves. 

He gives her a few quick flicks of the tip of his tongue, then goes back to those long, even sweeps. She’s so close already and Max can tell; he doesn’t want to tease her with anything intricate. His mouth is skilled and steady, keeping rhythmic pressure against her.

Liz’s toes flex and curl, the hand holding the mark on her chest pressing down so hard it will bruise. Every cell in her body is singing, shouting, _flying_ as Max’s stubbled cheeks scrape against the inside of her thighs, his tongue and lips carrying her ever higher and closer to the edge. 

And maybe it’s the psychic bond or maybe it’s just _Max,_ but every single touch seems designed to show Liz just how much he loves and cherishes her, proving that she’s special to him in a way no one else could ever be.

Pleasure coils tighter and tighter in her belly, her whole body like a spring on the verge of snapping. Liz is panting and moaning his name and tugging on his hair, the night air cool as it blows across the sheen of sweat on her skin, pinpricks of light bursting behind her eyelids.

Max shifts his grip on her, supporting her hips with one hand so the other can reach between her legs, two thick fingers slipping into her swollen wet heat, and that’s all it takes. Liz is clamping her thighs around his ears and screaming as the orgasm rips through her body, tsunami waves of spasms wracking her muscles, her body a wire strung taut.

He might not have confessed his otherworldly origins just yet but Liz knows it now, the truth of it singing in her bones. 

Because nothing on _Earth_ has ever felt this good. 

She’s adrift in a warm, turquoise ocean; she has bright white fireworks bursting inside her veins; she’s broken free of gravity and is floating out amongst the stars. 

And when she finally comes back to her boneless, blissed-out body, she finds Max curled protectively around it, her head pillowed on his right arm, his left a strong band holding her safe against his warmth.

“Sleep, Liz,” he murmurs into the small patch of skin behind her left ear, his face buried in her thick hair.

She wants to offer him something, to keep the night going, but she finds that she’s too exhausted to speak. 

It doesn’t matter; Max knows anyway. 

He’s in her head, after all. 

“We’ve got plenty of time ahead of us to do everything you want to do,” he says, his voice soft and small, joyous and so, so hopeful. “We have tomorrow, and the day after that, and the one after that—“

“—And the one after that.”

She can feel him smiling against the back of her neck. “All the tomorrows. They’re all ours.”

So she drifts off into the deep, dreamless dark, careful to keep her fingers resting on the glowing outline of Max’s hand painted on her chest. 


End file.
